


Healed Scars

by ThatOneKrys



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, comfort over past hurts mostly, scars stubbornness and safety, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneKrys/pseuds/ThatOneKrys
Summary: Despite carving out a place for himself in Storybrooke in the desire to not waste the second chance he was given, there’s one thing that Liam Jones refuses to face (quite literally): the scar that runs up the inside of his forearm from his fatal meeting with Neverland’s dreamshade. Determined to keep the reminder hidden with long sleeves and stubbornness, Liam tends to forget the one even more stubborn force in his life: Belle French.





	

He’s lost in thought as he moves through the motions of cleaning up and shutting down the bar after another busy evening. If there was one thing he was grateful about his time in the Underworld, it was that it gave him the career opportunity in Storybrooke he wouldn’t have otherwise pursued. With the _Jewel_ in Killian’s possession, and a lack of any sort of structured sailing professions in the seaside town, there hadn’t really been any other options for him. Because of his time in limbo, it only seemed right that he took over the _Rabbit Hole_ when it became obvious he’d go bonkers without some sort of job.

And such experience, quite often, led to mindless evenings in the empty bar. Left to his own devices, Liam could let his mind go blank and decompress from the evening; especially on the nights where it seemed the entire town wanted a night out and chose the only bar in town as their destination. _The rare night that Granny’s was deserted save for the handful of kids too old for an eight o’clock bedtime and too young for a drink._

The low timbre of Johnny Cash’s voice is enough to put him in a sort of trance as he works, unaware of the light _ding_ of the front door as a late night visitor slips inside; not even the soft _click click_ of towering heels coming towards him reaches his ears. It isn’t until a warm hand settles on his left forearm and lips press against his cheek that he’s pulled back to the present. Eyes snap to the brunette watching him over his shoulder, and his body goes still as soon as her touch registers.

It’s not that Belle’s touch is unwelcome— _he always craves her touch_ , but in that moment his right hand itches to brush her hand away and pull the sleeve of his shirt back down to his wrist, to hide the scar he can barely stomach to look at, let alone allow anyone else to see. Belle must be able to sense his discomfort, if the slight crease between her brows is anything to judge by, because a moment later her hand moves to his biceps instead, her warm smile never faltering.

“You didn’t have to meet me down here, love. I half expected to go upstairs and find you buried in a book,” he offers as he moves around Belle to straighten up the wall of liquor bottles, smoothing his shirt’s sleeves back down as inconspicuously as he can; if she notices, she doesn’t say anything.

“I just left the library, actually,” she explains, hopping up onto one of the stools at the bar, elbows bent and resting against the counter. He can feel her eyes on him and, even despite what happened moments prior, he smiles happily at the knowledge. “Killian and I stayed late to do a bit more research. He had a thought and wanted to see if it would pan out.”

“Did it?”

“You’ll hear about it first thing tomorrow.” Belle laughs. In other words, they were successful in their information search pertaining to the Black Fairy, and his little brother wanted to _brag_ about said success.

“Give me a minute to finish in the office and we can head upstairs.” His request is followed up with a quick, chaste kiss over the counter before disappearing to the aforementioned room.

* * *

It isn’t until an hour or so later, when they’re comfortably curled up in bed, when Belle brings up his stilted reaction to her greeting down in the bar. “It doesn’t bother me, you know,” she tells him, turning onto her side until she can see him in the near dark. She reaches for his left wrist, one hand circling it, the other’s fingers sliding beneath the sleeve of his sleep shirt, but making no move to slide the fabric up.

“ _Belle_ ,” he half warns, half pleads, in a low voice. He can feel his pulse quicken beneath her fingers, and he forces slow, deep breaths to keep it from rising any further.

Her hand stops, but she makes no move to pull away, instead letting her fingers settle over the rough, raised skin. “I understand your aversion to it.” And he knows she does; she knows his story—heard it initially from Killian long before their trip to the Underworld, and heard it again from Liam himself in the middle of the night aboard the _Jewel_ when his nightmares startled him awake and the only way either of them would find sleep again was to confess what was on their minds. She understands the shame he feels whenever he’s reminded of the events on Neverland that lead to his death. “But that doesn’t mean _I_ feel the same way.” He can feel the hesitant, minute advancement of her fingers along his arm, and he has to ball his hands to keep himself from pushing her away. “I’ll stop if you want me to, Liam. Just say so.”

Lips part to do just that, but his voice catches. As much as he hates the ugly reminder forever branded in his flesh, the constant craving he feels for her touch outweighs that hate. So he stays silent, wary eyes watching as best he can in the dark as he feels the cotton slowly pushed up his forearm and replaced with the warmth of Belle’s palm. She makes no move to push him any further, physically or verbally, and he finds comfort in her silent compromise.

Slowly, his heartbeat returns to its normal pace and he eventually falls asleep with her hand still pressed against his skin, waking the next morning to their entwined hands buried beneath his pillow.

* * *

Every night over the next few weeks Belle goes through the same motions once they’re settled in for the evening and the lights are off; gently pushing up Liam’s sleeve and wrapping one—sometimes both—hands around the scar. Some nights, the action is preempted by a lingering kiss against his wrist. As the nights went on, his initial discomfort slowly dissolved until he no longer reacted to her touch; Belle never pushed further, patiently waiting for Liam to push himself out of his new comfort zone.

It took nearly two months.

One night, Liam stopped Belle before she could turn off her lamp. Book still in her hands, light still flooding across the bed, he silently requested her attention with a kiss—one that lingered longer than their usual goodnight kiss. She gives him a questioning look when he finally pulls away, but instead of answering he takes a slow, deep breath before pulling up his sleeve, revealing the Dreamshade darkened scar.

Belle stays still for a moment, and it’s long enough for him to regret what he’s done. Before he can pull the sleeve back down, however, her hand shoots out and stops him. Their eyes meet and she gives him a warm, loving smile that he easily reads as a thank you; it isn’t until then that he’s able to relax surprisingly tensed shoulders.

Her fingertips trace the blackened veins that trail away from the raised scar, and he can sense the question she wants to ask before she voices it. “There’s no poison left—at least, I assume there isn’t. It’s not as if I’ve had anyone check, but given I’m _alive_ …” His explanation trails off into a shrug of his shoulders as he falls silent once more.

The silence between them continues for a few minutes longer, as Belle studies his marked arm, and he studies her.

“Thank you,” she eventually whispers, bringing his forearm to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss into his skin.

“For what?” he asks, not entirely certain _why_ she would be thanking him when _she_ had been the one to get him to open up.

Entwining their fingers, she lets their hands drop into her lap as a bright smile spreads across her features. “For trusting me, Liam. For trusting me enough to show me a part of yourself you don’t like. For letting me take care of you.”

Despite the short time they’ve been together in comparison to the varying relationships she has (and has had) with others in Storybrooke, Liam prides himself on being able to read her. This instant is no different. He understands what she’s trying to convey without having to come out and say it: _thank you for trusting me in a way my husband wouldn’t: completely._

 A smile of his own makes an appearance, his free hand cupping her cheek to pull her in for a sweet kiss. “Thank you for knowing what I needed when I didn’t,” he murmurs against her lips before stealing another kiss.

* * *

It takes some time, but slowly Liam learns to let go of his shame and hatred—all with Belle’s help, of course. In time, he lets go of the strictly long-sleeved wardrobe, first only around Belle, and eventually around others.

Killian, of course, is the first to note the tee-shirt his brother sports during an afternoon on the beach with their extensive self-proclaimed family. Lips parted to make a joke at the elder’s expense; it isn’t until he sees Belle’s hand wrapped protectively around where he knows the scar to be that he understands the importance of such a spectacle. Instead, he simply nods his understanding at Liam, his wide smile more than enough to express the pride he feels for his big brother in that moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. First time ever writing Belle so I hope it wasn't too off. As always, kudos and comments are <3<3


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